


The Sound of the Ocean

by The_Necroposter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creative writing class, F/M, Philosophy, Writing, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8393179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Necroposter/pseuds/The_Necroposter
Summary: It's the end of the day; a woman contemplating the growing darkness also contemplates her long life and where she stands at the end of it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just between greater works of fan fiction / spitefics, here's something I wrote for a creative writing class. It's a one-shot.

She stands in the living room, with her back to the window, a little bent over, like she’s always standing these days. It’s easy for her to make fun of herself being a living question mark, burdened down by too much drama, even though neither Ariel nor Mrs Ortiz ever found that particularly funny. Right now, she is standing by the window as usual, but is looking inside, through the living room, toward the corridor. On the little plastic table in front of the settee burns a small flame, painted green by the glass candleholder. That’s the candleholder she inherited from Ariel. It’s also the only source of light in the room. She stands by the window, with her back to the view, and looks at the shadows gathering in the corridor that leads to the kitchen, as daylight makes way for dusk.

There’s no need to look outside, is there? No, no need. So many years she spent looking out of that big, white-curtain-framed window, down the street, beyond the tall buildings and their twinkling lights, where strips of white beach and green ocean can be guessed, sometimes seen. It is a good view – a view she’s soaked in countless times as she would stare out that window for hours on end, waiting, imagining, listening, hearing the murmur of the deep dark waters.

She knows that view and that sound better than anything in the world. When she closes her eyes, she hears the steady and deep hum, she sees the view; there’s the big, black skyscraper to the left and the palm trees right below, embellishing the street, lining the mosaic-like pavement. One of the trees was once hit by a car; the dent in the bark is still visible, and it has stayed crooked. Mrs Ortiz predicted that the tree would die, but since then, twenty-four years have passed, and the tree still stands, even if it has changed. It has adapted.

It still stands there now, crooked and damaged but very much alive; there is no need to check. There has been no need to check for a while, now. She can’t quite recall when she understood that the need to check had gone, that it is no longer relevant to keep looking, that the palm tree and the skyscrapers and the people down below will still be there, regardless; at long last, she sees it. It is more of a feeling than anything else, this realisation, and she doesn’t quite have the words for it, but she knows that it is true nonetheless.

In the hallway, the shadows gather. The little flame on the plastic table flickers, even though all the windows are closed. Hasn't Ariel fixed that strange, hard-to-pinpoint draught? Has he? She can’t quite recall. He tried; she remembers that much. She remembers that she told him that the draught kept blowing out her candles. He was a little angry at her for the lack of a candleholder, telling her that this was a serious fire hazard, and the next time he came around, he brought her the little green candleholder. It was his grandmother’s, then his mother’s, then his, and then hers. She didn’t want to accept it; he insisted. It is her heirloom, now. It is the only tangible heirloom she still has, anyway.

She stands with her back to the big window, sees the flickering candlelight from the corner of her left eye, and watches the gathering shadows. Usually, she would stop staring out the window just about now; she would stop watching life teeming down there in an endless current. She’d pull the curtains shut, turn on the standard lamp with the beige lampshade that stands in the corner, and sit on the settee to read a book. She was reading a little while ago, though she cannot quite recall where in the book she stopped. Has she even put the bookmark back in? It doesn’t matter. She’d know it, were she to open it up again. Not now, though. No, not now.

It’s getting darker, but that isn't so bad. There is something peaceful about the dimness, about the silence in this room, about the steady stream of background noise that rises up from the streets below – the hum, the murmur, the rumble, the whisper, the echo. Even that is muted, far away, soothing and yet insignificant. It is hard to explain. She likes it, though. It feels as if she were on a tiny island in the middle of the endless ocean, all by herself, with nothing but her own thoughts for company, but strangely unburdened by them. It has been a long time since that has happened, and she is grateful for it.

To her left, the little candle’s flame flickers in its holder, and it doesn’t matter if Ariel has managed to fix the draught or not. The memory of him handing this beloved little heirloom to her surfaces. She can almost see the oval-shaped, green glass object in his big, weathered hands, as well as the smile on his face – the one that crinkles the laugh-lines around his eyes even more. Warmth wells up inside her, and she smiles softly. That feels good, too – not heavy, not painful, not tainted. This is even more soothing than being surrounded by mounting darkness, separating her from the rest of life.

This is an island; it always has been an island. Now, though, night gathering and the ocean surrounding the tiny speck of land she calls her own are no longer threatening.

She knows that there is light in the kitchen. How long has she been standing here, dreaming, drifting, and that light has been shining, painting a stark contrast against the ocean of blackness? Maybe longer than she remembers, but then again, so many things escape her mind as of late – like the bookmark, or the origins of that strange, strange draught. It could be that they don’t even matter, these things, all these little things, if her mind cannot hold onto them.

There is a reason, too, why staring out the window at all that life far down below is so damn important. However, there is light in the kitchen, now, and it shines brighter than the memories.

Slowly, gingerly, she leaves her shadows, walks past the tiny, flickering island of brightness to her left without sparing it a look, drags her tired feet down the hall, and blinks away the glare as she steps over the threshold into the kitchen. The quadrangular room is furnished as it has been for the past forty years: white cupboard, red fridge and oven, stainless steel sink, dark wooden table and chairs, beige tiles. It’s simplistic, and the appliances are all but falling apart, but right now, they look oddly new, shiny and polished.

Noah is sitting at the table, wearing his old jeans and safety boots and favourite, ragged red shirt. His brown hair is short again, like it used to be. He looks up from his hands on the table-top and locks eyes with her (his blue ones her brown ones). There’s a smile hidden in there, somewhere, and there has never been any sight more familiar to her in all the world.

“Please, my darling, have a seat,” he says, and motions at the chair right next to him.

They never face each other during dinner – never. They always sit side by side by his insistence, no matter where they go and what they do and who might be miffed by having to change seating arrangements. It is one of his many little idiosyncrasies that baffle her to this day – baffle and charm. Noah’s usual modus operandi, as he always calls it: confusing her into agreeing with him. She knows it’s just him being silly, and he knows that she knows, but both of them play along anyway, like he’s this chess-playing mastermind pulling all the strings. She can even pretend that this is all Serious Business with a straight face, but he always has a twinkle in his eye. That is his real modus operandi, right there.

“I waited for you,” she says, briefly glancing down at her wrinkled hands, before looking at him again. “You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” This time, an actual little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he pats the spot to his left. “Will you not sit by me?”

“I was looking out the window,” she says, her voice surprisingly level. She shuffles over to where he is and laboriously sits down next to him. “I was looking. I was listening.”

He takes her hand; his skin feels warm against hers. “Still with the corpse hands, I see.”

That makes her chuckle lowly. “There’s a draught in the living room.”

“I thought Ariel fixed that.”

“I think he has,” she says, waving off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” he says, and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. It doesn’t hurt. “My hand is warm enough for both of us.”

That’s always been the case. She half-turns to scrutinise him, to look at him – really look at him. She sees him: his sharp-angled face, the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the little dark spot next to his left pupil, in his otherwise immaculately blue iris. That’s what he looks like, what he’s always looked like, but it isn't who he is. She looks at him and her hands don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, the perpetual chill leaves her body, and she feels herself effortlessly smiling. She looks at him, and it’s like being bathed in sunlight without the pain. There is no pain. Her back straightens. She looks at him. She _sees_ him: he’s Noah. He’s always been this way, and now, he always will.

This is something she understands, something she knows she will remember forever.

Intertwining her fingers with his, she says, “I used to look outside, far away at what I could glimpse of the ocean. I would listen to the traffic down below and try to believe that it was the murmur of the sea.”

“We all try to find meaning in what might seem meaningless at first,” he says, tilting his head slightly to the side, his eyes never leaving hers. “The results are sometimes heart-breaking, but mostly, they are beautiful.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“No.” He reaches out with his free hand, briefly touches the side of her face. Her skin doesn’t feel tender anymore. “It’s your life. It’s what defines you. Sure, we all got important, real things to worry about, but when it comes down to it, all of these things are basically the same for everyone: get up, go to work, eat, sleep, worry. However, we are not the same – none of us. You hear the drone of traffic breaking against this building like a wave, and you want to hear the ocean. You hear the ocean. It’s your meaning. It’s _you_.”

She can’t take her eyes off of him. The gathering shadows in the hallway have turned to pitch-black darkness. It’s like the world is drowning in ink. Briefly, she wonders whether the little candle in its green candleholder – Ariel’s heirloom – is still burning. She knows that she won’t go back to check, though – not now. She is here, in the island of light, with Noah.

“I don’t know what that means,” she says, unsure whether she’s responding to his remark or her own thoughts, “or what it’s supposed to say about me.”

“It means what you want it to be the sound of the ocean, and that reflects back to you, because it’s what you felt in the first place,” he says, the subtlest hint of his smile becoming more pronounced. Maybe someone who doesn’t know him would be able to see it now, too. “Like the deepest pit of the ocean, it was there before you realised that you wanted to hear it.”

“And then I heard it,” she says, having to smile a little, herself. It feels…light. Carefree. That’s a good thing, isn't it? It must be. She recognises it. “I felt it. I wanted to. I wanted it to be the actual sound of the ocean.”

“How did that make you feel?”

She shrugs, shakes her head, chews on her lower lip. That doesn’t hurt, either. “Melancholy. Happy. Fulfilled. Longing. I really thought that I could hear it, after a while. I think I still do.” Despite herself, her vision gets blurry, the tip of her nose tingles, and there’s a knot in her throat. Haven't those days become a thing of the past? Is there even such a thing? It’s so hard to believe it, even now.

“Are you there? At the sea, listening to it, the sound of the ocean, the crash of the waves upon the sand?”

“I’m here, now, with you.”

As has always been his most sacred and beloved custom when faced with utter bullshit, he gives her the eyebrow. “Jane.”

Even though she has to mop at her eyes and sniffle, she snickers, because he sounds so prissy when he scolds her. She knows he does it deliberately, to take the edge out of an impending argument. “You’re right, you’re right. I _am_ here, though – really. I just can’t help being there, too.” A little silence ensues, and she chuckles awkwardly, looking down at their hands. “Sorry.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Don’t apologise when you’ve done nothing wrong,” he says, his brow creasing a little.  

“Oh, I’ve done plenty wrong,” she says, smiling, dryly amused. “Maybe even listening to that sound, _for_ that sound. Maybe I wasted too much time wanting to hear and to see. Maybe I wasted too much time waiting.”

His expression turns sombre. “I know that I kept you waiting, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t. You never do.”

That makes him chuckle wryly, and he runs the fingers of his free hand through his hair. He always does that when he’s sheepish. “Sorry again.”

“Don’t apologise,” she says, and holds his hand with both of hers. “It’s advice that’s good enough for both of us.”

For a moment, he doesn’t reply, but then, his expression softens, and it’s like its own source of radiance; it always has been to her, at least. “I’m here, now, too.”

“Thank you for that,” she says, giving his fingers a light squeeze with her pain-free hands. “I’m glad you’re finally home. I was starting to worry.”

“We could go and listen to the sound of traffic together, pretend that we can hear the ocean.” He says this in a tone she knows so well, in this placating yet wishing-for-protest tone of voice that is mostly charming and sometimes exasperating.

“Or we can just go and see the real thing,” she says, unable to keep a broad smile from taking hold of her features, of her entire body. It feels light, now, somehow – untethered. “Dig our toes into the wet sand, let the surf wash over our feet.”

“Like he used to,” he says, his lips curving up slightly.

“Like _we_ used to.”

Very slowly, with deliberate care, he leans in and places a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Come on, then,” he says, pushes his chair away, stands up. “Let’s go to the beach, Miss Jane.”

“Let’s go to the beach,” she echoes, and she remembers that this has always been their little tradition. It tended to infuriate most everyone around them, but they didn’t care. They never did. She allows him to pull her up to her feet, and then she follows him out of the kitchen and into the darkness, stepping lightly, feeling weightless but not hollow. “I think Ariel will be there, too. He always talked about it.”

She’ll be glad to see him. She’ll be glad of the silvery light of stars and moon reflected upon the black water. 

“It’s his ocean, too,” Noah says, as he leads her outside. “He better be there, or else.”

“Or else,” she says, and laughs.

In the living room, the little candle’s flame sputters out. Neither Jane nor Noah look back. They have time to do so, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The candle is out, the curtains are shut, and the ocean is waiting.


End file.
